When Mr Croft and Miss Annie got into the spring-wagon, and the head of the sorrel was turned away from the church, Lawrence looked at his watch, and remarked that, as it was still quite early, there might be time for a little drive before going back to the house for dinner. The face of the young lady beside him was still slightly pale, and the thought came to him that it would be very well for her if her mind could be diverted from the abnormally inspiriting scene she had just witnessed.
"Dinner will be late to-day," she said, "for I saw Letty doing her best among the Jerusalem Jumpers."
"Very well," said he, "we will drive. And now, where shall we go?"
"If we take the cross-road at the store," said Miss Annie, "and go on for about half a mile, we can turn into the woods, and then there is a beautiful road through the trees, which will bring us out on the other side of Aunt Keswick's house. Junius took me that way not long ago."
So they turned at the store, much to the disgust of the plodding sorrel, who thought he was going directly home, and they soon reached the road that led through the woods. This was hard and sandy, as are many of the roads through the forests in that part of the country, and it would have been a very good driving road, had it not been for the occasional protrusion of tree roots, which gave the wheels a little bump, and for the branches which, now and then, hung down somewhat too low for the comfort of a lady and gentleman, riding in a rather high spring-wagon without a cover. But Lawrence drove slowly, and so the root bumps were not noticed; and when the low-hanging boughs were on his side, he lifted them so that his companion's head could pass under and, when they happened to be on her side, Annie ducked her head, and her hat was never brushed off. But, at times, they drove quite a distance without overhanging boughs, and the pine trees, surrounded by their smooth carpet of brown spines, gave forth a spicy fragrance in the warm, but sparkling air; the oak trees stood up still dark and green; while the chestnuts were all dressed in rich yellow, with the chinquepin bushes by the roadside imitating them in color, as they tried to do in fruit. Sometimes a spray of purple flowers could be seen among the trees, and great patches of sunlight which, here and there, came through the thinning foliage, fell, now upon the brilliantly scarlet leaves of a sweet-gum, and now upon the polished and brown-red dress of a neighboring black-gum.
The woods were very quiet. There was no sound of bird or insect, and the occasional hare, or "Molly Cotton-tail," as Annie delightedly called it, who hopped across the road, made no noise at all. A gentle wind among the tops of the taller trees made a sound as of a distant sea; but, besides this, little was heard but the low, crunching noise of the wheels, and the voices of Lawrence and Miss Annie.
Reaching a place where the road branched, Lawrence stopped the horse, and looked up each leafy lane. They were completely deserted. White people seldom walked abroad at this hour on Sunday, and the negroes of the neighborhood were at church. "Is not this a frightfully lonely place?" he said. "One might imagine himself in a desert."
"I like it," replied Annie. "It is so different from the wild, exciting tumult of that church. I am glad you took me away. At first I would not have missed it for the world, but there seemed to come into the stormy scene something oppressive, and almost terrifying."
"I am glad I took you away," said Lawrence, "but it seems to me that your impression was not altogether natural. I thought that, amid all that mad enthusiasm, you were over-excited, not depressed. A solemn solitude like this would, to my thinking, be much more likely to lower your spirits. I don't like solitude, myself, and therefore, I suppose it is that I thought an impressible nature, like yours, would find something sad in the loneliness of these silent woods."
Annie turned, and fixed on him her large blue eyes. "But I am not alone," she said.
As Lawrence looked into her eyes he saw that they were as clear as the purest crystal, and that he could look through them straight into her soul, and there he saw that this woman loved him. The vision was as sudden as if it had been a night scene lighted up by a flash of lightning, but it was as clear and plain as if it had been that same scene under the noonday sun.
There are times in the life of a man, when the goddess of Reasonable Impulse raises her arms above her head, and allows herself a little yawn. Then she takes off her crown and hangs it on the back of her throne; after which she rests her sceptre on the floor, and, rising, stretches herself to her full height, and goes forth to take a long, refreshing walk by the waters of Unreflection. Then her minister, Prudence, stretches himself upon a bench, and, with his handkerchief over his eyes, composes himself for a nap. Discretion, Worldly Wisdom, and other trusted officers of her court, and even, sometimes, that agile page called Memory, no sooner see their royal mistress depart than, by various doors, they leave the palace and wander far away. Then, silently, with sparkling eyes, and parted lips, comes that fair being, Unthinking Love. She puts one foot upon the lower step of the throne; she looks about her; and, with a quick bound, she seats herself. Upon her tumbled curls she hastily puts the crown; with her small white hand she grasps the sceptre; and then, rising, waves it, and issues her commands. The crowd of emotions which serve as her satellites, seize the great seal from the sleeping Prudence, and the new Queen reigns!
All this now happened to Lawrence. Never before had he looked into the eyes of a woman who loved him; and, leaning over towards this one, he put his arm around her and drew her towards him. "And never shall you be alone," he said.
She looked up at him with tears starting to her eyes, and then she put her head against his breast. She was too happy to say anything, and she did not try.
It was about a minute after this, that the sober sorrel, who took no interest in what had occurred behind him, and a great deal of interest in his stable at home, started in an uncertain and hesitating way; and, finding that he was not checked, began to move onward. Lawrence looked up from the little head upon his breast, and called out, "Whoa!" To this, however, the sorrel paid no attention. Lawrence then put forth his right hand to grasp the reins, but having lately forgotten all about them, they had fallen out of the spring-wagon, and were now dragging upon the ground. It was impossible for him to reach them, and so, seizing the whip, he endeavored with its aid to hook them up. Failing in this, he was about to jump out and run to the horse's head; but, perceiving his intention, Annie seized his arm. "Don't you do it!" she exclaimed. "You'll ruin your ankle!"
Lawrence could not but admit to himself that he was not in condition to execute any feats of agility, and he also felt that Annie had a very charming way of holding fast to his arm, as if she had a right to keep him out of danger. And now the sorrel broke into the jog-trot which was his usual pace. "It is very provoking," said Lawrence, "I don't think I ever allowed myself to drop the reins before."
"It doesn't make the slightest difference," said Annie, comfortingly. "This old horse knows the road perfectly well, and he doesn't need a bit of driving. He will take us home just as safely as if you held the reins, and now don't you try to get them, for you will only hurt yourself."
"Very well," said Lawrence, putting his arm around her again, "I am resigned. But I think you are very brave to sit so quiet and composed, under the circumstances."
She looked at him with a smile. "Such a little circumstance don't count, just now," she said. "You must stop that," she added, presently, "when we get to the edge of the woods."
Before long, they came out into the open country and found themselves in a lane which led by a wide circuit to the road passing Mrs Keswick's house. The old sorrel certainly behaved admirably; he held back when he descended a declivity; he walked over the rough places; and he trotted steadily where the road was smooth.
"It seems like our Fate," said Annie, who now sat up without an arm around her, the protecting woods having been left behind, "he just takes us along without our having anything to do with it."
"He is not much of a horse," said Lawrence, clasping, in an unobservable way, the little hand which lay by his side, "but the Fate is charming."
Fortunately there was no one upon the road to notice the reinless plight in which these two young people found themselves, and they were quite as well satisfied as if they had been doing their own driving. After a little period of thought, Annie turned an earnest face to Lawrence, and she said: "Do you know that I never believed that you were really in love with Roberta March."
Lawrence squeezed her hand, but did not reply. He knew very well that he had loved Roberta March, and he was not going to lie about it.
"I thought so," she continued, "because I did not believe that any one, who was truly in love, would want to send other people about, to propose for him, as you did."
"That is not exactly the state of the case," he said, "but we must not talk of those things now. That is all passed and gone."
"But if there ever was any love," she persisted, "are you sure that it is all gone?"
"Gone," he answered, earnestly, "as utterly and completely as the days of last summer."
And now the sorrel, of his own accord, stopped at Mrs Keswick's outer gate; and Lawrence, getting down, took up the reins, opened the gate, and drove to the house in quite a proper way.
When Mr Croft helped Annie to descend from the spring-wagon, he did not squeeze her hand, nor exchange with her any tender glances, for old Mrs Keswick was standing at the top of the steps. "Have you seen Letty?" she asked.
"Letty?" said Miss Annie. "Oh, yes," she added, as if she suddenly remembered that such a person existed, "Letty was at church, and she was very active."
"Well," said the old lady, "she must have taken more interest in the exercises than you did, for it is long past the time when I told her she must be home."
"I do not believe, madam," said Lawrence, "that any one could have taken more interest in the exercises of this morning, than we have."
At this, Annie could not help giving him a little look which would have provoked reflection in the mind of the old lady, had she not been very earnestly engaged in gazing out into the road, in the hope of seeing Letty.
When Lawrence had gone into the office, and had closed the door behind him, he stood in a meditative mood before the empty fireplace. He was making inquiries of himself in regard to what he had just done. He was not accusing himself, nor indulging in regrets; he was simply investigating the matter. Here he stood, a man accepted by two women. If he had ever heard of any other man in a like condition, he would have called that man a scoundrel, and yet he did not deem himself a scoundrel.
The facts in the case were easy enough to understand. For the first time in his life he had looked into the eyes of a woman who loved him, and he had discovered to his utter surprise that he loved her. There had been no plan; no prudent outlook into her nature and feelings; no cautious insight into his own. He had taken part in a most unpremeditated act of pure and simple love; and that it was real and pure love on each side, he no more doubted than he doubted that he lived. And yet, had he been an impostor when, on that hill over there, he told Roberta March he loved her? No, he had been honest, he had loved her; and, since the time that he had been roused to action by the discovery of Junius Keswick's intentions to renew his suit, it had been a love full of a rare and alluring beauty. But its charm, its fascination, its very existence, had disappeared in the first flash of his knowledge that Annie Peyton loved him. Had his love for Roberta been a perfect one, had he been sure that she returned it, then it could not have been overthrown; but it had gone, and a love, complete and perfect, stood in its place. He had seen that he was loved, and he loved. That was all, but it would stand forever.
This was the state of the case, and now Lawrence set himself to discover if, in all ways, he had acted truly and honestly. He had been accepted by Miss March, but what sort of acceptance was it? Should he, as a man true to himself, accept such an acceptance? What was he to think of a woman who, very angry as he had been informed, had sent him a message, which meant everything in the world to him, if it meant anything, and had then dashed away without allowing him a chance to speak to her, or even giving him a nod of farewell. The last thing she had really said to him in this connection were those cruel words on Pine Top Hill, with which she had asked him to choose a spot in which to be rejected. Could he consider himself engaged? Would a woman who cared for him act towards him in such a manner? After all, was that acceptance anything more than the result of pique? And could he not, quite as justly, accept the rejection which she had professed herself anxious to give him.
A short time before, Lawrence had done his best to explain to his advantage these peculiarities of his status in regard to Miss March. He had said to himself that she had threatened to reject him because she wished to punish him, and he had intended to implore her pardon, and expected to receive it. Over and over again, had he argued with himself in this strain, and yet, in spite of it all, he had not been able to bring himself into a state of mind in which he could sit down and write to her a letter, which, in his estimation, would be certain to seal and complete the engagement. "How very glad I am," he now said to himself, "that I never wrote that letter!" And this was the only decision at which he had arrived, when he heard Mrs Keswick calling to him from the yard.
He immediately went to the door, when the old lady informed him, that as Letty had not come back, and did not appear to be intending to come back, and that as none of the other servants on the place had made their appearance, he might as well come into the house, and try to satisfy his hunger on what cold food she and Mrs Null had managed to collect.
The most biting and spicy condiments of the little meal, to which the three sat down, were supplied by Mrs Keswick, who reviled without stint those utterly thoughtless and heedless colored people, who, once in the midst of their crazy religious exercises, totally forgot that they owed any duty whatever to those who employed them. Lawrence and Annie did not say much, but there was something peculiarly piquant in the way in which Annie brought and poured out the tea she had made, and which, with the exception of the old lady's remarks, was the only warm part of the repast; and there was an element of buoyancy in the manner of Mr Croft, as he took his cup to drink the tea. Although he said little at this meal, he thought a great deal, listening not at all to Mrs Keswick's tirades. "What a charmingly inconsiderate affair this has been!" he said to himself. "Nothing planned, nothing provided for, or against; all spontaneous, and from our very hearts. I never thought to tell her that she must say nothing to her aunt, until we had agreed how everything should, be explained, and I don't believe the idea that it is necessary to say anything to anybody, has entered her mind. But I must keep my eyes away from her if I don't want to bring on a premature explosion."
Whatever might be the result of the reasoning which this young man had to do with himself, it was quite plain that he was abundantly satisfied with things as they were.
It was beginning to be dark, when Letty and Uncle Isham returned and explained why they had been so late in returning.
Old Aunt Patsy had died in church.
"Lawrence," said Annie, on the forenoon of the next day, as they were sitting together in the parlor with the house to themselves, Mrs Keswick having gone to Aunt Patsy's cabin to supervise proceedings there, "Lawrence, don't you feel glad that we did not have a chance to speak to dear old Aunt Patsy about those little shoes? Perhaps she had forgotten that she had stolen them, and so went to heaven without that sin on her soul."
"That is a very comfortable way of looking at it," said Lawrence, "but wouldn't it be better to assume that she did not steal them?"
"I am very sorry," said Annie, "but that is not easy to do. But don't let us think anything more about that. And, don't you feel very glad that the poor old creature, who looked so happy as she sat singing and clapping her hands on her knees, didn't die until after we had left the church? If it had happened while we were there, I don't believe—"
"Don't believe what?" asked Lawrence.
"Well, that you now would be sitting with your arm on the back of my chair."
Lawrence was quite sure, from what had been told him, that Aunt Patsy's demise had taken place before they left the church, but he did not say so to Annie. He merely took his arm from the back of her chair, and placed it around her.
"And do you know," said she, "that Letty told me something, this morning, that is so funny and yet in a certain way so pathetic, that it made me laugh and cry both. She said that Aunt Patsy always thought that you were Mr Null."
At this, Lawrence burst out laughing, but Annie checked him and went on; "And she told Letty in church, when she saw us two come in, that she believed she could die happy now, since she had seen Miss Annie married to such a peart gentleman, and that it looked as if old miss had got over her grudge against him."
"And didn't Letty undeceive her?" asked Lawrence.
"No, she said it would be a pity to upset the mind of such an old woman, and she didn't do it."
"Then the good Aunt Patsy died," said Lawrence, "thinking I was that wretched tramp of a bone-dust pedler, which the fancy of your aunt has conjured up. That explains the interest the venerable colored woman took in me. It is now quite easy to understand; for, if your aunt abused your mythical husband to everybody, as she did to me, I don't wonder Aunt Patsy thought I was in danger."
"Poor old woman," said Annie, looking down at the floor, "I am so glad that we helped her to die happy."
"As she was obliged to anticipate the truth," said Lawrence, "in order to derive any comfort from it, I am glad she did it. But although I am delighted, more than my words can tell you, to take the place of your Mr Null, you must not expect me to have any of his attributes."
"Now just listen to me, sir," said Annie. "I don't want you to say one word against Mr Null. If it had not been for that good Freddy, things would have been very different from what they are now. If you care for me at all, you owe me entirely to Freddy Null."
"Entirely?" asked Lawrence.
"Of course I mean in regard to opportunities of finding out things and saying them. If Aunt Keswick had supposed I was only Annie Peyton, she would not have allowed Mr Croft to interfere with her plans for Junius and me. I expected Mr Null to be of service to me, but no one could have imagined that he would have brought about anything like this."
"Blessed be Null!" exclaimed Lawrence.
Annie asked him to please to be more careful, for how did he know that one of the servants might not be sweeping the front porch, and of course, they would look in at the windows.
"But, my dear child," said Lawrence, pushing back his chair to a prudent distance, "we must seriously consider this Null business. We shall have to inform your aunt of the present state of affairs, and before we do that, we must explain what sort of person Frederick Null, Esquire, really was—I am not willing to admit that he exists, even as a myth."
"Oh dear! oh dear!" exclaimed Annie. "We shall have a dreadful time! When Aunt Keswick knows that there never was any Mr Null, and then hears that you and I are engaged, it will throw her into the most dreadful state of mind that she has ever been in, in her life; and father has told me of some of the awful family earthquakes that Aunt Keswick has brought about, when things went wrong with her."
"We must be very cautious," said Lawrence, "and neither of us must say a word, or do anything that may arouse her suspicions, until we have settled upon the best possible method of making the facts known to her. The case is indeed a complicated one."
"And what makes it more so," said Annie, "is Aunt Keswick's belief that you are in love with Miss March, and that you want to get a chance to propose to her. She does think that, doesn't she?"
"Yes," said Lawrence, "I must admit that she does."
"And she must be made to understand that that is entirely at an end," continued Annie. "All this will be a very difficult task, Lawrence, and I don't see how it is to be done."
"But we shall do it," he answered, "and we must not forget to be very prudent, until it is fully settled how we shall do it."
When Lawrence retired to his room, and sat down to hold that peculiar court in which he was judge, jury, lawyers, and witnesses, as well as the prisoner at the bar, he had to do with a case, a great deal more complicated and difficult than that which perplexed the mind of Miss Annie Peyton. He began by the very unjudicial act of pledging himself, to himself, that nothing should interfere with this new, this true love. In spite of all that might be said, done, or thought, Annie Peyton should be his wife. There was no indecision, whatever, in regard to the new love; the only question was: "What is to be done about the old one?"
Lawrence could not admit, for a moment, that he could have spoken to Roberta March as he had spoken, if he had not loved her; but he could now perceive that that love had been in no small degree impaired and weakened by the manner of its acceptance. The action of Miss March on her last day here had much more chilled his ardor than her words on Pine Top Hill. He had not, before, examined thoroughly into the condition of that ardor after the departure of the lady, but it was plain enough now.
There was, therefore, no doubt whatever in regard to his love for Miss March; he was quite ready and able to lay that aside. But what about her acceptance of it? How could he lay that aside?
This was the real case before the court. The witnesses could give no available testimony, the lawyers argued feebly, the jury disagreed, and Lawrence, in his capacity of judge, dismissed the case. In his efforts to conduct his mind through the channels of law and equity, Lawrence had not satisfied himself, and his thoughts began to be moved by what might be termed his military impulses. "I made a charge into the camp," he said with a little downward drawing of the corners of his mouth, "and I did not capture the commander-in-chief. And now I intend to charge out again."
He sat down to his table, and wrote the following note:
"My Dear Miss March:
"I have been waiting for a good many days, hoping to receive, either from you or Mr Keswick, an explanation of the message you sent to me by him. I now believe that it will be impossible to give a satisfactory explanation of that message. I therefore recur to our last private interview, and wish to say to you that I am ready, at any time, to meet you under either a sycamore or a cherry tree."
And then he signed it, and addressed it to Miss March at Midbranch. This being done, he put on his hat, and stepped out to see if a messenger could be found to carry the letter to its destination, for he did not wish to wait for the semi-weekly mail. Near the house he met Annie.
"What have you been doing all this time?" she asked.
"I have been writing a letter," he said, "and am now looking for some colored boy who will carry it for me."
"Who is it to?" she asked.
"Miss March," was his answer.
"Let me see it," said Annie.
At this, Lawrence looked at her with wide-open eyes, and then he laughed. Never, since he had been a child, had there been any one who would have thought of such a thing as asking to see a private letter which he had written to some one else; and that this young girl should stand up before him with her straightforward expectant gaze and make such a request of him, in the first instance, amused him.
"You don't mean to say," she added, "that you would write anything toMiss March which you would not let me see."
"This letter," said Lawrence, "was written for Miss March, and no one else. It is simply the winding up of that old affair."
"Give it to me," said Annie, "and let me see how you wound it up."
Lawrence smiled, looked at her in silence for a moment, and then handed her the letter.
"I don't want you to think," she said, as she took it, "that I am going to ask you to show me all the letters you write. But when you write one to a lady like Miss March, I want to know what you say to her." And then she read the letter. When she had finished, she turned to Lawrence, and with her countenance full of amazement, exclaimed: "I haven't the least idea in the world what all this means! What message did she send you? And why should you meet her under a tree?"
These questions went so straight to the core of the affair, and were so peculiarly difficult to answer, that Lawrence, for the moment, found himself in the very unusual position of not knowing what to say, but he presently remarked: "Do you think it is of any advantage to either of us to talk over this affair, which is now past and gone?"
"I don't want to talk over any of it," said Annie, very promptly, "except the part of it which is referred to in this letter; but I want to know about that."
"That covers the most important part of it," said Lawrence.
"Very good," she answered, "and so you can tell it to me. And now, that I think of it, you can tell me, at the same time, why you wanted to find my cousin Junius. You refused once to tell me that, you know."
"I remember," said Lawrence. "And if you have the least feeling about it I will relate the whole affair, from beginning to end."
"That, perhaps, will be the best thing to do, after all," said Annie. "And suppose we take a walk over the fields, and then you can tell it without being interrupted."
But Lawrence did not feel that his ankle would allow him to accept this invitation, for it had hurt him a good deal since his walk to Aunt Patsy's cabin. He said so to Annie, and excited in her the deepest feelings of commiseration.
"You must take no more walks of any length," she exclaimed, "until you are quite, quite well! It was my fault that you took that tramp to Aunt Patsy's. I ought to have known better. But then," she said, looking up at him, "you were not under my charge. I shall take very good care of you now."
"For my part," he said, "I am glad I have this little relapse, for nowI can stay here longer."
"I am very, very sorry for the relapse," said she, "but awfully glad for the stay. And you mustn't stand another minute. Let us go and sit in the arbor. The sun is shining straight into it, and that will make it all the more comfortable, while you are telling me about those things."
They sat down in the arbor, and Lawrence told Annie the whole history of his affair with Miss March, from the beginning to the end; that is if the end had been reached; although he intimated to her no doubt upon this point. This avowal he had never expected to make. In fact he had never contemplated its possibility. But now he felt a certain satisfaction in telling it. Every item, as it was related, seemed thrown aside forever. "And now then, my dear Annie," he said, when he had finished, "what do you think of all that?"
"Well," she said, "in the first place, I am still more of the opinion than I was before, that you never were really in love with her. You did entirely too much planning, and investigating, and calculating; and when, at last, you did come to the conclusion to propose to her, you did not do it so much of your own accord, as because you found that another man would be likely to get her, if you did not make a pretty quick move yourself. And as to that acceptance, I don't think anything of it at all. I believe she was very angry at Junius because he consented to bring your messages, when he ought to have been his own messenger, and that she gave him that answer just to rack his soul with agony. I don't believe she ever dreamed that he would take it to you. And, to tell the simple truth, I believe, from what I saw of her that morning, that she was thinking very little of you, and a great deal of him. To be sure, she was fiery angry with him, but it is better to be that way with a lover, than to pay no attention to him at all."
This was a view of the case which had never struck Lawrence before, and although it was not very flattering to him, it was very comforting. He felt that it was extremely likely that this young woman had been able to truthfully divine, in a case in which he had failed, the motives of another young woman. Here was a further reason for congratulating himself that he had not written to Miss March.
"And as to the last part of the letter," said Annie, "you are not going under any cherry tree, or sycamore either, to be refused by her. What she said to you was quite enough for a final answer, without any signing or sealing under trees, or anywhere else. I think the best thing that can be done with this precious epistle is to tear it up."
Lawrence was amused by the piquant earnestness of this decision. "But what am I to do," he asked, "I can't let the matter rest in this unfinished and unsatisfactory condition."
"You might write to her," said Annie, "and tell her that you have accepted what she said to you on Pine Top Hill as a conclusive answer, and that you now take back everything you ever said on the subject you talked of that day. And do you think it would be well to put in anything about your being otherwise engaged?"
At this Lawrence laughed. "I think that expression would hardly answer," he said, "but I will write another note, and we shall see how you like it."
"That will be very well," said the happy Annie, "and if I were you I'd make it as gentle as I could. It's of no use to hurt her feelings."
"Oh, I don't want to do that," said Lawrence, "and now that we have the opportunity, let us consider the question of informing your aunt of our engagement."
"Oh dear, dear, dear!" said Annie, "that is a great deal worse than informing Miss March that you don't want to be engaged to her."
"That is true," said Lawrence. "It is not by any means an easy piece of business. But we might as well look it square in the face, and determine what is to be done about it."
"It is simple enough, just as we look at it," said Annie. "All we have to do, is to say that, knowing that Aunt Keswick had written to my father that she was determined to make a match between cousin Junius and me, I was afraid to come down here without putting up some insurmountable obstacle between me and a man that I had not seen since I was a little girl. Of course I would say, very decidedly, that I wouldn't have married him if I hadn't wanted to; but then, considering Aunt Keswick's very open way of carrying out her plans, it would have been very unpleasant, and indeed impossible for me to be in the house with him unless she saw that there was no hope of a marriage between us; and for this reason I took the name of Mrs Null, or Mrs Nothing; and came down here, secure under the protection of a husband who never existed. And then, we could say that you and I were a good deal together, and that, although you had supposed, when you came here, that you were in love with Miss March, you had discovered that this was a mistake, and that afterwards we fell in love with each other, and are now engaged. That would be a straightforward statement of everything, just as it happened; but the great trouble is: How are we going to tell it to Aunt Keswick?"
"You are right," said Lawrence. "How are we going to tell it?"
"It need not be told!" thundered a strong voice close to their ears. And then there was a noise of breaking lattice-work and cracking vines, and through the back part of the arbor came an old woman wearing a purple sun-bonnet, and beating down all obstacles before her with a great purple umbrella. "You needn't tell it!" cried Mrs Keswick, standing in the middle of the arbor, her eyes glistening, her form trembling, and her umbrella quivering in the air. "You needn't tell it! It's told!"
Graphic and vivid descriptions have been written of those furious storms of devastating wind and deluging rain, which suddenly sweep away the beauty of some fair tropical scene; and we have read, too, of dreadful cyclones and tornadoes, which rush, in mad rage, over land and sea, burying great ships in a vast tumult of frenzied waves, or crushing to the earth forests, buildings, everything that may lie in their awful paths; but no description could be written which could give an adequate idea of the storm which now burst upon Lawrence and Annie. The old lady had seen these two standing together in the yard, conversing most earnestly. She had then seen Annie read a letter that Lawrence gave her; and then she had perceived the two, in close converse, enter the arbor, and sit down together without the slightest regard for the rights of Mr Null.
Mrs Keswick looked upon all this as somewhat more out-of-the-way than the usual proceedings of these young people, and there came into her mind a curiosity to know what they were saying to each other. So she immediately repaired to the large garden, and quietly made her way to the back of the arbor, in which advantageous position she heard the whole of Lawrence's story of his love-affair with Miss March; Annie's remarks upon the same, and the facts of this young lady's proposed confession in regard to her marriage with Mr Null, and her engagement to Mr Croft.
Then she burst in upon them; the tornado and the cyclone raged; the thunder rolled and crashed; and the white lightning of her wrath flashed upon the two, as if it would scathe and annihilate them, as they stood before her. Neither of them had ever known or imagined anything like this. It had been long since Mrs Keswick had had an opportunity of exercising that power of vituperative torment, which had driven a husband to the refuge of a reverted pistol; which had banished, for life, relatives and friends; and which, in the shape of a promissory curse, had held apart those who would have been husband and wife; and now, like the long stored up venom of a serpent, it burst out with the direful force given by concentration and retention.
At the first outburst, Annie had turned pale and shrunk back, but now she clung to the side of Lawrence, who, although his face was somewhat blanched and his form trembled a little with excitement, still stood up bravely, and endeavored, but ineffectually, to force upon the old lady's attention a denial of her bitter accusations. With face almost as purple as the bonnet she wore, or the umbrella she shook in the air, the old lady first addressed her niece. With scorn and condemnation she spoke of the deceit which the young girl had practised upon her. But this part of the exercises was soon over. She seemed to think that although nothing could be viler than Annie's conduct towards her, still the fact that Mr Null no longer existed, put Annie again within her grasp and control, and made it unnecessary to say much to her on this occasion. It was upon Lawrence that the main cataract of her fury poured. It would be wrong to say that she could not find words to express her ire towards him. She found plenty of them, and used them all. He had deceived her most abominably; he had come there, the expressed and avowed lover of Miss March; he had connived with her niece in her deceit; he had taken advantage of all the opportunities she gave him to attain the legitimate object of his visit, to inveigle into his snares this silly and absurd young woman; and he had dared to interfere with the plans, which, by day and by night, she had been maturing for years. In vain did Lawrence endeavor to answer or explain. She stopped not, nor listened to one word.
"And you need not imagine," she screamed at him, "that you are going to turn round, when you like, and marry anybody you please. You are engaged, body and soul, to Roberta March, and have no right, by laws of man or heaven, to marry anybody else. If you breathe a word of love to any other woman it makes you a vile criminal in the eyes of the law, and renders you liable to prosecution, sir. Your affianced bride knows nothing of what her double-faced snake of a lover is doing here, but she shall know speedily. That is a matter which I take into my own hands. Out of my way, both of you!"
And with these words she charged by them, and rushed out of the arbor, and into the house.
They were not a happy pair, Lawrence Croft and Annie Peyton, as they stood together in the arbor, after old Mrs Keswick had left them. They were both a good deal shaken by the storm they had passed through.
"Lawrence," said Annie, looking up to him with her large eyes full of earnestness, "there surely is no truth in what she said about your being legally bound to Miss March?"
"None in the least," said Lawrence. "No man, under the circumstances, would consider himself engaged to a woman. At any rate, there is one thing which I wish you to understand, and that is that I am not engaged to Miss March, and that I am engaged to you. No matter what is said or done, you and I belong to each other."
Annie made no answer, but she pressed his hand tightly as she looked up into his face. He kissed her as she stood, notwithstanding his belief that old Mrs Keswick was fully capable of bounding down on him, umbrella in hand, from an upper window.
"What do you think she is going to do?" Annie asked presently.
"My dear Annie," said he, "I do not believe that there is a person on earth who could divine what your Aunt Keswick is going to do. As to that, we must simply wait and see. But, for my part, I know what I must do. I must write a letter to Miss March, and inform her, plainly and definitely, that I have ceased to be a suitor for her hand. I think also that it will be well to let her know that we are engaged?"
"Yes," said Annie, "for she will be sure to hear it now. But she will think it is a very prompt proceeding."
"That's exactly what it was," said Lawrence, smiling, "prompt and determined. There was no doubt or indecision about any part of our affair, was there, little one?"
"Not a bit of it," said Annie, proudly.
At dinner that day Annie took her place at one end of the table, and Lawrence his at the other, but the old lady did not make her appearance. She was so erratic in her goings and comings, and had so often told them they must never wait for her, that Annie cut the ham, and Lawrence carved the fowl, and the meal proceeded without her. But while they were eating Mrs Keswick was heard coming down stairs from her room, the front door was opened and slammed violently, and from the dining-room windows they saw her go down the steps, across the yard, and out of the gate.
"I do hope," ejaculated Annie, "that she has not gone away to stay!"
If Annie had remembered that the boy Plez, in a clean jacket and long white apron, officiated as waiter, she would not have said this, but then she would have lost some information. "Ole miss not gone to stay," he said, with the license of an untrained retainer. "She gone to Howlettses, an' she done tole Aun' Letty she'll be back agin dis ebenin'."
"If Aunt Keswick don't come back," said Annie, when the two were in the parlor after dinner, "I shall go after her. I don't intend to drive her out of the house."
"Don't you trouble yourself about that, my dear," said Lawrence. "She is too angry not to come back."
"There is one thing," said Annie, after a while, "that we really ought to do. To-morrow Aunt Patsy is to be buried, and before she is put into the ground, those little shoes should be returned to Aunt Keswick. It seems to me that justice to poor Aunt Patsy requires that this should be done. Perhaps now she knows how wicked it was to steal them."
"Yes," said Lawrence, "I think it would be well to put them back where they belong; but how can you manage it?"
"If you will give them to me," said Annie, "I will go up to aunt's room, now that she is away, and if she keeps the box in the same place where it used to be, I'll slip them into it. I hate dreadfully to do it, but I really feel that it is a duty."
When Lawrence, with some little difficulty, walked across the yard to get the shoes from his trunk, Annie ran after him, and waited at the office door. "You must not take a step more than necessary," she said, "and so I won't make you come back to the house."
When Lawrence gave her the shoes, and her hand a little squeeze at the same time, he told her that he should sit down immediately and write his letter.
"And I," said Annie, "will go, and see what I can do with these."
With the shoes in her pocket, she went up stairs into her aunt's room, and, after looking around hastily, as if to see that the old lady had not left the ghost of herself in charge, she approached the closet in which the sacred pasteboard box had always been kept. But the closet was locked. Turning away she looked about the room. There was no other place in which there was any probability that the box would be kept. Then she became nervous; she fancied she heard the click of the yard gate; she would not for anything have her aunt catch her in that room; nor would she take the shoes away with her. Hastily placing them upon a table she slipped out, and hurried into her own room.
It was about an hour after this, that Mrs Keswick came rapidly up the steps of the front porch. She had been to Howlett's to carry a letter which she had written to Miss March, and had there made arrangements to have that letter taken to Midbranch very early the next morning. She had wished to find some one who would start immediately, but as there was no moon, and as the messenger would arrive after the family were all in bed, she had been obliged to abandon this more energetic line of action. But the letter would get there soon enough; and if it did not bring down retribution on the head of the man who lodged in her office, and who, she said to herself, had worked himself into her plans, like the rot in a field of potatoes, she would ever after admit that she did not know how to write a letter. All the way home she had conned over her method of action until Mr Brandon, or a letter, should come from Midbranch.
She had already attacked, together, the unprincipled pair who found shelter in her house, and she now determined to come upon them separately, and torment each soul by itself. Annie, of course, would come in for the lesser share of the punishment, for the fact that the wretched and depraved Null was no more, had, in a great measure, mitigated her offence. She was safe, and her aunt intended to hold her fast, and do with her as she would, when the time and Junius came. But upon Lawrence she would have no mercy. When she had delivered him into the hands of Mr Brandon, or those of Roberta's father, or the clutches of the law, she would have nothing more to do with him, but until that time she would make him bewail the day when he deceived and imposed upon her by causing her to believe that he was in love with another when he was, in reality, trying to get possession of her niece. There were a great many things which she had not thought to say to him in the arbor, but she would pour the whole hot mass upon his head that evening.
Stamping up the stairs, and thumping her umbrella upon every step as she went, hot vengeance breathing from between her parted lips, and her eyes flashing with the delight of prospective fury, she entered her room. The light of the afternoon had but just begun to wane, and she had not made three steps into the apartment, before her eyes fell upon a pair of faded, light blue shoes, which stood side by side upon a table. She stopped suddenly, and stood, pale and rigid. Her grasp upon her umbrella loosened, and, unnoticed, it fell upon the floor. Then, her eyes still fixed upon the shoes, she moved slowly sidewise towards the closet. She tried the door, and found it still locked; then she put her hand in her pocket, drew out the key, looked at it, and dropped it. With faltering steps she drew near the table, and stood supporting herself by the back of a chair. Any one else would have seen upon that table merely a pair of baby's shoes; but she saw more. She saw the tops of the little socks which she had folded away for the last time so many years before; she saw the first short dress her child had ever worn; it was tied up with pink ribbons at the shoulders, from which hung two white, plump, little arms. There was a little neck, around which was a double string of coral fastened by a small gold clasp. Above this was a face, a baby face, with soft, pale eyes, and its head covered with curls of the lightest yellow, not arranged in artistic negligence, but smooth, even, and regular, as she so often had turned, twisted, and set them. It was indeed her baby girl who had come to her as clear and vivid in every feature, limb, and garment, as were the real shoes upon the table. For many minutes she stood, her eyes fixed upon the little apparition, then, slowly, she sank upon her knees by the chair, her sun-bonnet, which she had not removed, was bowed, so the pale eyes of the little one could not see her face, and from her own eyes came the first tears that that old woman had shed since her baby's clothes had been put away in the box.
* * * * *
Lawrence's letter to Miss March was a definitely expressed document, intended to cover all the ground necessary, and no more; but it could not be said that it was entirely satisfactory to himself. His case, to say the least of it, was a difficult one to defend. He was aware that his course might be looked upon by others as dishonorable, although he assured himself that he had acted justly. It might have been better to wait for a positive declaration from Miss March, that she had not truly accepted him, before engaging himself to another lady. But then, he said to himself, true love never waits for anything. At all events, he could write no better letter than the one he had produced, and he hoped he should have an opportunity to show it to Annie before he sent it.
He need not have troubled himself in this regard, for he and Annie were not disturbed during the rest of that day by the appearance of Mrs Keswick; but after the letter had been duly considered and approved, he found it difficult to obtain a messenger. There was no one on the place who would undertake to walk to Midbranch, and he could not take the liberty of using Mrs Keswick's horse for the trip, so it was found necessary to wait until the morrow, when the letter could be taken to Howlett's, where, if no one could be found to carry it immediately, it would have to be entrusted to the mail which went out the next day. Lawrence, of course, knew nothing of Mrs Keswick's message to Midbranch, or he would have been still more desirous that his letter should be promptly dispatched.
The evening was not a very pleasant one; the lovers did not know at what moment the old lady might descend upon them, and the element of unpleasant expectancy which pervaded the atmosphere of the house was somewhat depressing. They talked a good deal of the probabilities of Mrs Keswick's action. Lawrence expected that she would order him away, although Annie had stoutly maintained that her aunt would have no right to do this, as he was not in a condition to travel. This argument, however, made little impression upon Lawrence, who was not the man to stay in any house where he was not wanted; besides, he knew very well that for any one to stay in Mrs Keswick's house when she did not want him, would be an impossibility. But he did not intend to slip away in any cowardly manner, and leave Annie to bear alone the brunt of the second storm. He felt sure that such a storm was impending, and he was also quite certain that its greatest violence would break upon him. He would stay, therefore, and meet the old lady when she next descended upon them, and, before he went away, he would endeavor to utter some words in defence of himself and Annie.
They separated early, and a good deal of thinking was done by them before they went to sleep.
The next morning they had only each other for company at breakfast, but they had just risen from that meal when they were startled by the entrance of Mrs Keswick. Having expected her appearance during the whole of the time they were eating, they had no reason to be startled by her coming now, but for their subsequent amazement at her appearance and demeanor, they had every reason in the world. Her face was pale and grave, with an air of rigidity about it, which was not common to her, for, in general, she possessed a very mobile countenance. Without speaking a word, she advanced towards Lawrence, and extended her hand to him. He was so much surprised that while he took her hand in his he could only murmur some unintelligible form of morning salutation. Then Mrs Keswick turned to Annie, and shook hands with her. The young girl grew pale, but said not a word, but some tears came into her eyes, although why this happened she could not have explained to herself. Having finished this little performance, the old lady walked to the back window, and looked out into the flower garden, although there was really nothing there to see. Now Annie found voice to ask her aunt if she would not have some breakfast.
"No," said Mrs Keswick, "my breakfast was brought up-stairs to me." And with that she turned and went out of the room. She closed the door behind her, but scarcely had she done so, when she opened it again and looked in. It was quite plain, to the two silent and astonished observers of her actions, that she was engaged in the occupation, very unusual with her, of controlling an excited condition of mind. She looked first at one, and then at the other, and then she said, in a voice which seemed to meet with occasional obstructions in its course: "I have nothing more to say about anything. Do just what you please, only don't talk to me about it." And she closed the door.
"What is the meaning of all this?" said Lawrence, advancing towardsAnnie. "What has come over her?"
"I am sure I don't know," said Annie, and with this she burst into tears, and cried as she would have scorned to cry, during the terrible storm of the day before.
That morning, Lawrence Croft was a very much puzzled man. What had happened to Mrs Keswick he could not divine, and at times he imagined that her changed demeanor was perhaps nothing but an artful cover to some new and more ruthless attack.
Annie took occasion to be with her aunt a good deal during the morning, but she reported to Lawrence that the old lady had said very little, and that little related entirely to household affairs.
Mrs Keswick ate dinner with them. Her manner was grave, and even stern; but she made a few remarks in regard to the weather and some neighborhood matters; and before the end of the meal both Lawrence and Annie fancied that they could see some little signs of a return to her usual humor, which was pleasant enough when nothing happened to make it otherwise. But expectations of an early return to her ordinary manner of life were fallacious; she did not appear at supper; and she spent the evening in her own room. Lawrence and Annie had thus ample opportunity to discuss this novel and most unexpected state of affairs. They did not understand it, but it could not fail to cheer and encourage them. Only one thing they decided upon, and that was that Lawrence could not go away until he had had an opportunity of fully comprehending the position, in relation to Mrs Keswick, in which he and Annie stood.
About the middle of the evening, as Lawrence was thinking that it was time for him to retire to his room in the little house in the yard, Letty came in with a letter which she said had been brought from Midbranch by a colored man on a horse; the man had said there was no answer, and had gone back to Howlett's, where he belonged.
The letter was for Mr Croft and from Miss March. Very much surprised at receiving such a missive, Lawrence opened the envelope. His letter to Miss March had not yet been sent, for the new state of affairs had not only very much occupied his mind, but it also seemed to render unnecessary any haste in the matter, and he had concluded to mail the letter the next day. This, therefore, was not in answer to anything from him; and why should she have written?
It was with a decidedly uneasy sensation that Lawrence began to read the letter, Annie watching him anxiously as he did so. The letter was a somewhat long one, and the purport of it was as follows: The writer stated that, having received a most extraordinary and astounding epistle from old Mrs Keswick, which had been sent by a special messenger, she had thought it her duty to write immediately on the subject to Mr Croft, and had detained the man that she might send this letter by him. She did not pretend to understand the full purport of what Mrs Keswick had written, but it was evident that the old lady believed that an engagement of marriage existed between herself (Miss March) and Mr Croft. That that gentleman had given such information to Mrs Keswick she could hardly suppose, but, if he had, it must have been in consequence of a message which, very much to her surprise and grief, had been delivered to Mr Croft by Mr Keswick. In order that this message might be understood, Miss March had determined to make a full explanation of her line of conduct towards Mr Croft.
During the latter part of their pleasant intercourse at Midbranch during the past summer, she had reason to believe that Mr Croft's intentions in regard to her were becoming serious, but she had also perceived that his impulses, however earnest they might have been, were controlled by an extraordinary caution and prudence, which, although it sometimes amused her, was not in the least degree complimentary to her. She could not prevent herself from resenting this somewhat peculiar action of Mr Croft, and this resentment grew into a desire, which gradually became a very strong one, that she might have an opportunity of declining a proposal from him. That opportunity came while they were both at Mrs Keswick's, and she had intended that what she said at her last interview with Mr Croft should be considered a definite refusal of his suit, but the interview had terminated before she had stated her mind quite as plainly as she had purposed doing. She had not, however, wished to renew the conversation on the subject, and had concluded to content herself with what she had already said; feeling quite sure that her words had been sufficient to satisfy Mr Croft that it would be useless to make any further proposals.
When, on the eve of her departure from the house, Mr Keswick had brought her Mr Croft's message, she was not only amazed, but indignant; not so much at Mr Croft for sending it, as at Mr Keswick for bringing it. Miss March was not ashamed to confess that she was irritated and incensed to a high degree that a gentleman who had held the position towards her that Mr Keswick had held, should bring her such a message from another man. She was, therefore, seized with a sudden impulse to punish him, and, without in the least expecting that he would carry such an answer, she had given him the one which he had taken to Mr Croft. Having, until the day on which she was writing, heard nothing further on the subject, she had supposed that her expectations had been realized. But on this day the astonishing letter from Mrs Keswick had arrived, and it made her understand that not only had her impulsive answer been delivered, but that Mr Croft had informed other persons that he had been accepted. She wished, therefore, to lose no time in stating to Mr Croft that what she had said to him, with her own lips, was to be received as her final resolve; and that the answer given to Mr Keswick was not intended for Mr Croft's ears.
Miss March then went on to say that it might be possible that she owed Mr Croft an apology for the somewhat ungracious manner in which she had treated him at Mrs Keswick's house; but she assured herself that Mr Croft owed her an apology, not only for the manner of his attentions, but for the peculiar publicity he had given them. In that case the apologies neutralized each other. Miss March had no intention of answering Mrs Keswick's letter. Under no circumstances could she have considered, for a moment, its absurd suggestions and recommendations; and it contained allusions to Mr Croft and another person which, if not founded upon the imagination of Mrs Keswick, certainly concerned nothing with which Miss March had anything to do.
The proud spirit of Lawrence Croft was a good deal ruffled when he read this letter, but he made no remark about it. "Would you like to read it?" he said to Annie.
She greatly desired to read it, but there was something in her lover's face, and in the tone in which he spoke, which made her suspect that the reading of that letter might be, in some degree, humiliating to him. She was certain, from the expression of his face as he read it, that the letter contained matter very unpleasant to Lawrence, and it might be that it would wound him to have another person, especially herself, read them; and so she said: "I don't care to read it if you will tell me why she wrote to you, and the point of what she says."
"Thank you," said Lawrence. And he crumpled the letter in his hand as he spoke. "She wrote," he continued, "in consequence of a letter she has had from your aunt."
"What!" exclaimed Annie. "Did Aunt Keswick write to her?"
"Yes," said Lawrence, "and sent it by a special messenger. She must have told her all the heinous crimes with which she charged you and me, particularly me; and this must have been the first intimation to Miss March that her cousin had given me the answer she made to him; therefore Miss March writes in haste to let me know that she did not intend that that answer should be given to me, and that she wishes it generally understood that I have no more connection with her than I have with the Queen of Spain. That is the sum and substance of the letter."
"I knew as well as I know anything in the world," said Annie, "that that message Junius brought you meant nothing." And, taking the crumpled letter from his hand, she threw it on the few embers that remained in the fireplace; and, as it blazed and crumbled into black ashes, she said: "Now that is the end of Roberta March!"
"Yes," said Lawrence, emphasizing his remark with an encircling arm, "so far as we are concerned, that is the end of her."
On the next day, old Aunt Patsy was buried. Mrs Keswick and Annie attended the ceremonies in the cabin, but they did not go to the burial. After a time, it might be in a week or two, or it might be in a year, the funeral sermon would be preached in the church, and they would go to hear that. Aunt Patsy never finished her crazy quilt, several pieces being wanted to one corner of it; but in the few days preceding her burial two old women of the congregation, with trembling hands and uncertain eyes, sewed in these pieces, and finished the quilt, in which the body of the venerable sister was wrapped, according to her well-known wish and desire. It is customary among the negroes to keep the remains of their friends a very short time after death, but Aunt Patsy had lived so long upon this earth that it was generally conceded that her spirit would not object to her body remaining above ground until all necessary arrangements should be completed, and until all people who had known or heard of her had had an opportunity of taking a last look at her. As she had been so very well known to almost everybody's grandparents, a good many people availed themselves of this privilege.
After Mrs Keswick's return from Aunt Patsy's cabin, where, according to her custom, she made herself very prominent, it was noticeable that she had dropped some of the grave reserve in which she had wrapped herself during the preceding day. It was impossible for her, at least but for a very short time, to act in a manner unsuited to her nature; and reserve and constraint had never been suited to her nature. She, therefore, began to speak on general subjects in her ordinary free manner to the various persons in her house; but it must not be supposed that she exhibited any contrition for the outrageous way in which she had spoken to Annie and Lawrence, or gave them any reason to suppose that the laceration of their souls on that occasion was a matter which, at present, needed any consideration whatever from her. An angel, born of memory and imagination, might come to her from heaven, and so work upon her superstitious feelings as to induce her to stop short in her course of reckless vengeance; but she would not, on that account, fall upon anybody's neck, or ask forgiveness for anything she had done to anybody. She did not accuse herself, nor repent; she only stopped. "After this," she said, "you all can do as you please. I have no further concern with your affairs. Only don't talk to me about them."
She told Lawrence, in a manner that would seem to indicate a moderate, but courteous, interest in his welfare, that he must not think of leaving her house until his ankle had fully recovered its strength; and she even went so far as to suggest the use of a patent lotion which she had seen at the store at Howlett's. She resumed her former intercourse with Annie, but it seemed impossible for her to entirely forget the deception which that young lady had practised upon her. The only indication, however, of this resentment was the appellation which she now bestowed upon her niece. In speaking of her to Lawrence, or any of the household, she invariably called her "the late Mrs Null," and this title so pleased the old lady that she soon began to use it in addressing her niece. Annie occasionally remonstrated in a manner which seemed half playful, but was in fact quite earnest, but her aunt paid no manner of attention to her words, and continued to please herself by this half-sarcastic method of alluding to her niece's fictitious matrimonial state.
Letty, and the other servants, were at first much astonished by the new title given to Miss Annie, and the only way in which they could explain it was by supposing that Mr Null had gone off somewhere and died; and although they could not understand why Miss Annie should show so little grief in the matter, and why she had not put on mourning, they imagined that these were customs which she had learned in the North.
Lawrence advised Annie to pay no attention to this whim of her aunt. "It don't hurt either of us," he said, "and we ought to be very glad that she has let us off so easily. But there is one thing I think you ought to do; you should write to your cousin Junius, and tell him of our engagement; but I would not refer at all to the other matter; you are not supposed to have anything to do with it, and Miss March can tell him as much about it as she chooses, Mr Keswick wrote me that he was going to Midbranch, and that he would communicate with me while there, but, as I have not since heard from him, I presume he is still in Washington."
A letter was, therefore, written by Annie, and addressed to Junius, in Washington, and Lawrence drove her to the railroad station in the spring-wagon, where it was posted. The family mail came bi-weekly to Howlett's, as the post-office at the railroad station was entirely too distant for convenience; and as Saturday approached it was evident, from Mrs Keswick's occasional remarks and questions, that she expected a letter. It was quite natural for Lawrence and Annie to surmise that this letter was expected from Miss March, for Mrs Keswick had not heard of any rejoinder having been made to her epistle to that lady. When, late on Saturday afternoon, the boy Plez returned from Howlett's, Mrs Keswick eagerly took from him the well-worn letter-bag, and looked over its contents. There was a letter for her and from Midbranch, but the address was written by Junius, not by Miss March. There was another in the same hand-writing for Annie. As the old lady looked at the address on her letter, and then on its post-mark, she was evidently disappointed and displeased, but she said nothing, and went away with it to her room. Annie's letter was in answer to the one she had sent to Washington, which had been promptly forwarded to Midbranch where Junius had been for some days. It began by expressing much surprise at the information his cousin had given him in regard to her assumption of a married title, and although she had assured him she had very good reasons, he could not admit that it was right and proper for her to deceive his aunt and himself in this way. If it were indeed necessary that other persons should suppose that she were a married woman, her nearest relatives, at least, should have been told the truth.
At this passage, Annie, who was reading the letter aloud, and Lawrence who was listening, both laughed. But they made no remarks, and the reading proceeded.
Junius next alluded to the news of his cousin's engagement to Mr Croft. His guarded remarks on this subject showed the kindness of his heart. He did not allude to the suddenness of the engagement, nor to the very peculiar events that had so recently preceded it; but reading between the lines, both Annie and Lawrence thought that the writer had probably given these points a good deal of consideration. In a general way, however, it was impossible for him to see any objection to such a match for his cousin, and this was the impression he endeavored to give in a very kindly way, in his congratulations. But, even here, there seemed to be indications of a hope, on the part of the writer, that Mr Croft would not see fit to make another short tack in his course of love.
Like the polite gentleman he was, Mr Keswick allowed his own affairs to come in at the end of the letter. Here he informed his cousin that his engagement with Miss March had been renewed, and that they were to be married shortly after Christmas. As it must have been very plain to those who were present when Miss March left his aunt's house, that she left in anger with him, he felt impelled to say that he had explained to her the course of action to which she had taken exception, and although she had not admitted that that course had been a justifiable one, she had forgiven him. He wished also to say at this point that he, himself, was not at all proud of what he had done.
"That was intended for me," interrupted Lawrence.
"Well, if you understand it, it is all right," said Annie.
Junius went on to say that the renewal of his engagement was due, in great part, to Miss March's visit to his aunt; and to a letter she had received from her. A few days of intercourse with Mrs Keswick, whom she had never before seen, and the tenor and purpose of that letter, had persuaded Miss March that his aunt was a person whose mind had passed into a condition when its opposition or its action ought not to be considered by persons who were intent upon their own welfare. His own arrival at Midbranch, at this juncture, had resulted in the happy renewal of their engagement.
"I don't know Junius half as well as I wish I did," said Annie, as she finished the letter, "but I am very sure, indeed, that he will make a good husband, and I am glad he has got Roberta March—as he wants her."
"Did you emphasize 'he'?" asked Lawrence.
"I will emphasize it, if you would like to hear me do it," said she.
"It's very queer," remarked Annie, after a little pause, "that I should have been so anxious to preserve poor Junius from your clutches, and that, after all I did to save him, I should fall into those clutches myself."
Whereupon Lawrence, much to her delight, told her the story of the anti-detective.
Mrs Keswick sat down in her room, and read her letter. She had no intention of abandoning her resolution to let things go as they would; and, therefore, did not expect to follow up, with further words or actions, anything she had written in her letter to Roberta March. But she had had a very strong curiosity to know what that lady would say in answer to said letter, and she was therefore disappointed and displeased that the missive she had received was from her nephew, and not from Miss March. She did not wish to have a letter from Junius. She knew, or rather very much feared, that it would contain news which would be bad news to her, and although she was sure that such news would come to her sooner or later, she was very much averse to receiving it.
His letter to her merely touched upon the points of Mrs Null, and his cousin's engagement to Mr Croft; but it was almost entirely filled with the announcement, and most earnest defence, of his own engagement to Roberta March. He said a great deal upon this subject, and he said it well. But it is doubtful if his fervid, and often affectionate, expressions made much impression upon his aunt. Nothing could make the old lady like this engagement, but she had made up her mind that he might do as he pleased, and it didn't matter what he said about it; he had done it, and there was an end of it.
But there was one thing that did matter: That unprincipled and iniquitous old man Brandon had had his own way at last; and she and her way had been set aside. This was the last of a series of injuries to her and her family with which she charged Mr Brandon and his family; but it was the crowning wrong. The injury itself she did not so much deplore, as that the injurer would profit by it. Arrested in her course of raging passion by a sudden flood of warm and irresistible emotion, she had resigned, as impetuously as she had taken them up, her purposes of vengeance, and consequently, her plans for her nephew and niece. But she was a keen-minded, as well as passionate old woman, and when she had considered the altered state of affairs, she was able to see in it advantages as well as disappointment and defeat. From what she had learned of Lawrence Croft's circumstances and position, and she had made a good many inquiries on this subject of Roberta March, he was certainly a good match for Annie; and, although she hated to have anything to do with Midbranch, it could not be a bad thing for Junius to be master of that large estate, and that Mr Brandon had repeatedly declared he would be, if he married Roberta. Thus, in the midst of these reverses, there was something to comfort her, and reconcile her to them. But there was no balm for the wound caused by Mr Brandon's success and her failure.